


A Blaze of Light in Every Word

by MellytheHun



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Aziraphale is Bad at Being an Angel (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Dating, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed Occult Forces, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Groping, Heavy Petting, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Exploration, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 07:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19997968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: Demons keep secrets, but so do Angels, and while not every Hallelujah is whole and well, broken things can be beautiful too.





	A Blaze of Light in Every Word

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by Hallelujah, by Leonard Cohen
> 
> Now, I've heard there was a secret chord,  
> That David played, and it pleased the Lord,  
> But you don't really care for music, do you?  
> It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth,  
> The minor fall, the major lift,  
> The baffled king composing, "Hallelujah."
> 
> Hallelujah, Hallelujah.  
> Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
> 
> Your faith was strong, but you needed proof.  
> You saw her bathing on the roof,  
> Her beauty, and the moonlight overthrew you.  
> She tied you to a kitchen chair,  
> She broke your throne, and she cut your hair,  
> And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah.
> 
> Hallelujah, Hallelujah.  
> Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
> 
> Baby, I've been here before.  
> I know this room, I've walked this floor.  
> I used to live alone before I knew you.  
> And I've seen your flag on the marble arch.  
> Love is not a victory march,  
> It's a cold, and it's a broken Hallelujah.
> 
> Hallelujah, Hallelujah.  
> Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
> 
> There was a time you let me know,  
> What's really going on below,  
> But, now you never show it to me, do you?  
> And remember when I moved in you -  
> The holy dove was moving too,  
> And every breath we drew was Hallelujah.
> 
> Hallelujah, Hallelujah.  
> Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
> 
> You say I took the name in vain.  
> I don't even know the name,  
> But if I did, well really, what's it to you?  
> There's a blaze of light in every word,  
> It doesn't matter which you heard.  
> The holy, or the broken Hallelujah.
> 
> Hallelujah, Hallelujah.  
> Hallelujah, Hallelujah.

It’s a perfectly adequate day for playing outside, particularly if one is an uncommonly creative adolescent with friends who like to roleplay adventurers, and has been prescribed more ‘time outdoors, away from that television,’ by one’s mother.

Although Adam fits these descriptors, he is not, in fact, playing outside this day.

But neither is he indoors, watching television.

Summer brought with it tremendously disquieting thoughts, and soon, Adam found himself in need of audience with a supernatural being, the likes of which he had only met years before. After struggling in vain for two weeks, Adam went to Anathema, and inquired after her aid. 

She was all too happy to help, wondering herself how the Angel and Demon they’d met were doing these days, and glad to see Adam well. It took another two days of sleuthing, but soon, with Anathema’s help, they found a ‘Mr. Fell’s,’ bookshop, where books were never sold, and the place was run by (as one vitriolic Yelp! Reviewer described) ‘the most posh ponce to dance his way out of a sale.’ 

Quite certain it was the place Adam was looking for, he carried forward there, Dog in tow, and now he waits across the street, concentrating hard on the Demon he met two years before this perfectly adequate day, drawing him nearer, the more clearly he remembers the Demon.

He finds, still, that if he focuses very much on what he wants, even if it is unlikely to happen, that the universe tends to bend to his will, and his intent. 

He doesn’t use this power often - at least, he doesn’t think he does - and Anathema has explained to him that what he is experiencing is modern witchcraft practice - ‘setting intentions, working with the will of the universe,’ and other complicated sentences. 

The point is, if Adam really, really wants something, and concentrates on it very, very hard, the universe seems to listen to him still. Pepper used to ask a lot of questions about that, about how he can make unlikely things happen, and since he’s gotten older, and quite good at maths, he likes to say that his super power is one of probability. 

They all laugh about it, but Adam doesn’t care to examine his ‘super power,’ up close, because he fears he’ll lose the ability if he does; as one who chases a dream after waking will lose all remainants of it the more they give chase.

He knows, though, that if he focuses hard and long enough on remembering the Demon that swore to fight alongside him at the End of the World, that the Demon will be pulled to the bookshop, just as inexplicably as his mother is overcome to order pizzas, even after having gotten groceries for the week, when it is what Adam wants more than anything else. 

Pizza sounds very good, actually. 

Just as his tummy is giving a frustrated growl, he senses he should look to his left, and there, across the street, approaching the shop, is that gangly Demon he met at the End of the World.

“Mr. Demon!” Adam calls, because he cannot for the life of him remember the Demon’s name.

The man stops abruptly, looking at him, and, after a beat of consideration, he crosses the road to join him.

“Adam Young,” the Demon greets with fond surprise, “I do believe it’s a general rule of thumb not to go out looking for Demons.”

“I didn’t look for you,” Adam tells him unabashedly, “I summoned you.”

“Even worse!” the Demon compliments with a grin, “Phenomenal. So, what’s up?”

“Well, first - what’s your name, again?”

“Crowley,” the man says, extending a hand to shake, “You’ve grown quite a bit since I last saw you. Growth spurt?”

“That’s what mum says,” Adam replies, shaking Crowley’s hand, “I’m gonna be taller than her soon.”

“Lovely,” Crowley compliments, looking for all the world that he means it; Adam doesn’t really see how Crowley is a Demon. He just doesn’t seem all that Demonic.

Seems friendly, even.

But maybe that’s the entire idea - false senses of security, and all. Maybe Crowley’s particularly good at this type of deception, like, maybe he’s good at pretending to be good. 

Adam’s gotten very good at telling that sort of thing, though, and he doesn’t sense that Mr. Crowley is lying, or pretending.

His aura is a mix of strange colors, ones that Adam doesn’t often see on regular people, but it’s not off-putting.

He really seems like a fine man - someone Adam’s mum would even get along with.

“So, it’s a sunny Summer afternoon, Adam,” Crowley observes, tilting his head, “Why are you summoning Demons, when you could be off with friends, doing something a bit more conventional?”

“I have a question for you, but I didn’t know how to reach you,” Adam explains, then gestures to the bookshop, “I remembered the Angel man, and you were close back then, so I thought you’d still be now - so, if I could find him, I could find you, and Anathema helped me with the rest. It’s just - I have… a problem. And I need help. Your help.”

Crowley’s expression falls, and he seems sincerely apologetic when he says, “Adam, I don’t know that I’m the best to go to for _any_ kind of help. I’m a Demon. Helping isn’t really my prerogative.”

“But you know things about Hell, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Crowley answers, brow creasing in worry, “Why? What do you need to be knowing about Hell?”

Adam glances around dubiously, apparently put off by all the pedestrians, and so asks if they can continue their conversation in the bookshop. 

Hoping Aziraphale can possibly save him from this interaction, Crowley agrees, and the bell chimes their entrance, calling Aziraphale from the back.

“Crowley, my dear fellow, is that you out there?”

“Yes, Aziraphale, and I’ve got a guest.”

“Oh? Who would you have -”

Aziraphale stops in his tracks, looking at Adam - his eyes flicker to Crowley, then back to Adam, and his entire face lights up like it’s Christmas morning.

“Oh, Adam! How you’ve grown! Come in! Come in! It’s already past midday - have you had lunch yet? Crowley and I know all the best spots for lunch, and we could take you wherever you like -”

“Actually, I need somewhere private to talk to Mr. Crowley,” Adam requests politely.

Very evidently caught off-guard by this, Aziraphale blinks several times, then asks, “... you’re sure it’s Crowley you need to speak to?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Adam nods, “I summoned him here, with witchcraft.”

“Uhm…” Aziraphale looks at Crowley again (who is visibly begging for help), but with no viable excuse at the ready, he simply shows Adam to the back room, where there are lived-in love seats, and a couch for them all to sit on. 

Adam takes up one of the armchairs, Dog takes a seat at the arm, and Crowley drapes himself across the couch, while Aziraphale remains standing near the entryway. 

When Aziraphale hangs about, assuming his welcome, Adam looks at him, and announces, “I’m sorry, Mr. Angel Man -”

“Aziraphale.”

“Oh, uh… Mr. Azira-phale,” Adam corrects himself, saying the name slowly, clearly hoping not to trip over it, “I’m sorry, but I wanted to talk to Mr. Crowley in private. Like, alone.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says softly, glancing again at Crowley, though Crowley’s brows and sunglasses give nothing away, “Alright. I’ll, uhm - I’ll put a kettle on, shall I? You two carry on.”

From afar, that is exactly what Aziraphale does, so it’s not as if it’s a _lie_ \- he puts a very normal teapot, on a very normal stove upstairs, and remains physically downstairs, within preternatural earshot to the conversation he intends to eavesdrop on.

After all, what young man would choose to confer with a Demon rather than an Angel on any matter, whatsoever? What could Adam need so specifically from a Demon, and should Aziraphale be worried? Because, he most decidedly is, already.

Once they think they are alone, Adam clears his throat, and says, “Mr. Crowley -”

“Just ‘Crowley,’ is fine, Adam.”

“Okay. Right. Crowley… uhm… I have a problem.”

“Again, Adam, if you’ve got any kind of problem, I really would recommend Aziraphale’s counsel. He’s an Angel - a Principality, even. Very important Upstairs, you know, and a very good listener. Born and bred to help others. He’s a natural at it. I’m sure you’d find him more a help, and comfort.”

Aziraphale leans a little more against the bookshelf separating him and the room in which Crowley is so sincerely complimenting him. 

His chest feel warm, and he smiles to himself.

“Listen - there’s a classmate I like. I mean, I like-like. I fancy.”

“Again, this is much more Aziraphale’s purview, Adam -”

“It’s a boy.”

Crowley gives pause, and so does Aziraphale.

“... is it a Demon boy?”

“What?” Adam asks, “No! Just a boy, a regular boy. But, I’m a boy, too.”

“Alright…”

“Mr. Crowley - do boys that fancy other boys really go to Hell just for fancying each other?”

At once, both Crowley and Aziraphale understand Adam’s audience with Crowley, and Aziraphale has so much to say, he’s nearly bursting with it.

He wants to storm in, and explain the complicated history of the writings in Leviticus, the poor interpretations of it, the context in which it was written, and speak for ages on the issues of interpersonal relationships between humans, the complexities, oddities, mixes and matches - but then Crowley’s voice breaks through, strong, and sure.

“No, Adam. You won’t go to Hell.”

“But, there are other kids at school, and even their parents that say -”

“Bollocks to those dolts - I’m a certified Demon, Adam - I _know_ who goes to Hell. I’ve escorted them there, myself!” Crowley interrupts, sounding driven, “You listen to _me_ , you hear?”

Adam must give a nod, or something else Aziraphale doesn’t see, because Crowley continues on.

“Love, in all forms, is an act of God, alright?” Crowley clarifies, “She has _gifted_ you with a Miracle. When in doubt, Adam, don’t check scriptures - look in your soul, because that’s where She is, always. She is part of everything, and everyone, especially the good bits, like love. I can see, plain as day, your soul is in pristine condition. Bit wonky, for a human - clear to anyone with eyes like mine that you’re not _entirely_ human, but no tarnishings, no stains, no holes, no chips - it’s still, and will remain, perfectly fit for Heaven in every way.”

Adam lets out a long sigh, and shifts his weight in the armchair he’s taken up.

“What if I kiss him? Or, what if, when we grow up, we want to do other stuff than kissing? Will it be okay, then?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Crowley answers instantly, “Adam, please don’t angst over this. You’re not going to Hell, and neither is the boy you fancy. You feel something wholesome, and good, and granted through the Almighty Herself. Bask in it, celebrate it - just see to it that all you do, you do with love. You’re doing fine.”

Aziraphale’s heart brims, fit to burst, he has to hold his own chest and rock with the sheer joy it brings him. Crowley has made for such a wonderful Godfather! Aziraphale is so proud of Crowley, so immensely pleased Crowley could be called on for comfort with such sensitive matters -

“What about _you_ , though? You’re in love with Mr. Aziraphale, and _you_ won’t tell _him_. You keep it secret, cause you think it’ll make him the same as you - like, not an Angel anymore. If it’s a Miracle, shouldn’t it have Saved you, and turned you back in to an Angel? If it’s a gift, shouldn’t you be sharing it with him?”

There is a long, significant pause wherein Aziraphale doesn’t even dare breathe.

“And how do you know all that?” Crowley asks nearly inaudibly, though also clearly between clenched teeth.

“When we shook hands outside,” Adam tells him plainly, “I saw that you keep a lot of secrets in your right wrist. I don’t know how my powers work, exactly, so I can’t explain it better than that, but you get it, right? Like how the Angel keeps secrets behind his left ear, and anxiety near his right-side hip. You must see it too, right? Anyway, there were secrets in your wrist, and even some things in the soft part of your palm. I saw them, in my head, like they were my own thoughts - you’re a Demon, you must have powers like this too.”

“ _What_ was in my palm?”

“A white feather,” Adam answers simply, “I think it’s from him. You groomed his wings a long time ago, maybe? Like birds do? I don’t know - I can’t tell. It was just flashes. You used to wear it in your hair, but then something made you really sad, and you turned it into a writing quill. Am I right?”

Aziraphale’s teapot explodes upstairs, but no one downstairs is able to hear it, so Aziraphale decides not to worry about it for the time being. He’ll conjure tea later.

This he has to hear now.

“It’s not the same.”

“Yes, it is! You’re not a girl, or a boy - and neither is Mr. Aziraphale. I can tell because of all the floaty things in your aura, and the wiggly parts of light by your heads. He likes to let people call him a man, because it’s easier for him, but otherwise, I don’t see any attachment on him. Your floaty things go in, and out, and sparkle sometimes - so, I think you’re a boy, and a girl, and both, and neither, and it changes. It doesn’t say anything about _that_ in scriptures, but you both _look_ a certain way, and I _do_ think it’s the same -”

“No, no - Adam, my love isn’t Blessed the way yours is.”

“What do you mean?”

Crowley sighs deeply, and explains, “I Fell from Grace, Adam. I used to feel the Almighty around me, and in the things I did, the good things I used to be, but… now, I don’t feel Her at all. That’s _part_ of the punishment. I don’t… get to love, the way you do. My love’s all, uh… broken. It’s not the same.”

A few beats pass with nothing but the ticking of a nearby clock to be heard.

“So, your love isn’t right? It’s not a good type?”

“It’s a good _type_ , as far as - well, as good as a Demon can be, I guess. It’s not - it’s difficult to explain -”

“Will _your_ love make _his_ love all broken if you give it to him?”

“What? I - not - I, uh - I don’t know. No. I mean - yes. Possibly? Anyway, I’m not risking it.”

“So, that’s why you don’t tell Mr. Aziraphale about loving him? Cause your love is a broken type that could make him broken too?”

“Mm,” Crowley hums, “He also happens to be my best friend. I wouldn’t put that at risk for anything.”

“But… you want more than to be friends? Like I do, with Peter?”

Aziraphale doesn’t hear an answer.

“Can anything fix the broken part?”

“I don’t think so, Adam.”

“Maybe I can fix it? I’m very good at fixing things,” Adam offers, “Then your love won’t be all broken, and you can offer it to Mr. Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale…”

Hanging desperately onto every second, like searching for a pulse, Aziraphale waits to hear Crowley finish, defeatedly, “... he deserves better than me, Adam.”

“What if he doesn’t want any better than you?”

Interestingly, Crowley laughs, “careful - you’ll start to sound like him.”

“Is this one of those things I’ll only understand when I’m older?”

“Adam, I sincerely hope you never have to understand feeling Fallen, broken, or undeserving. Just, listen - okay? You’re doing fine. You’re a fine young man. You always have been. You mean well, you do good, out in the world, and so long as you repent when you do bad things, behave in a way that would make your mother proud, then you’ll be fine. Aziraphale and I care about you, Adam. We always did. We won’t let you fall.”

There’s another pause.

“Do you feel any better? Or was I rubbish?”

Adam chuckles, “I feel better, Crowley. Thank you. You’re really nice, for a Demon.”

“There’s no need to insult me, Adam.”

Adam laughs again, “really! I can still tell you’re a Demon, though, so don’t worry.”

“I couldn’t have fooled you?” Crowley asks, a smile in his voice, “Not even for a little bit? I do a very good imitation of the Archangel Gabriel, you know. Maybe I could’ve fooled you.”

Aziraphale nods to no one, because it’s true - Crowley does do a very good imitation of Gabriel. It’s not flattering, but it is accurate.

“No. You’re selfish.”

A beat passes.

“I bet Angels don’t keep love all to themselves - so, you must be a Demon. It’s a gift - a Miracle, like you said - and you could offer it to someone else, even if it’s broken, but you don’t, cause you’re scared, and that’s very selfish. Doesn’t sound like an Angel at all. So, I’d still know you were a Demon, but that’s good, right? You are a Demon, and you don’t seem to like people forgetting that.”

Turning scarlet around the ears and neck, Aziraphale turns the other way against the bookcase, worrying that Adam _knows_ he’s listening. 

“Well, that will have to do, I guess. Any ideas about how to woo Peter, then?”

“Can a boy get another boy flowers? Or is that just for girls?”

“Anyone can get anyone flowers - flowers are a perfect gift,” Crowley praises him, “Any idea what his favorite flower is?”

“No. Wouldn’t know mine either, though. Do you have one?”

“Ghost orchids,” Crowley answers instantly, sounding wistful, “Dendrophylax lindenii - a rare beauty. Only blossoms in July, and at that, only in two places in all the world. Difficult orchid to keep alive, just about impossible to replicate outside their natural habitats - I tend to think the specialists handling them just don’t know how to motivate them properly, but either way, they’re lovely. They’ve got scales on the stem, like a snake, and they smell of apples, when they bloom.”

“You know a lot about flowers, huh? Are you a florist?”

“No,” Crowley sighs, “Just a strict gardner.”

Quickly Miracling tea together, Aziraphale, flushed, and a bit short of breath, walks into the room, handling a silver tray he’s had since 1922. He sets it down on the cocktail table, and quirks a brow at Adam.

“All is well?”

“Relatively, I guess,” Adam replies.

“Good,” Aziraphale answers, handing him his cup, “Did you get everything you needed? From Crowley?”

_“Did_ **_you_** _?”_

It takes just a split second for Aziraphale to realize that Adam’s response was not heard by anyone but him, in his own head. 

He glances at Crowley, who is too busy blowing the steam off the surface of his cup to notice, and then he looks back at Adam.

“Yes, I did. He’s right helpful when he wants to be.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Crowley warns.

Adam smiles, sips his tea, and asks if there’s biscuits around - Aziraphale insists on making lunch for them all, and even feeds up Dog, though he doesn’t generally approve of animals being in the shop.

“Before phones,” Adam begins, looking at Crowley checking his mobile, “how did you two stay in touch?”

“Personal ads, in the newspaper,” Aziraphale tells Adam, with a smile, “I’d write something vague, like ‘middle aged man seeking companion for the eve of the fourth, discretion key, ducks have ears.’”

“‘Ducks have ears?’”

“They must do,” Crowley insists, tapping on his phone, “How else would they hear other ducks?”

“Oh,” Adam says, smirking at Crowley, “that’s not a code for anything. _You_ think ducks have ears, so you’d know the ad was for you.”

“Ducks _must_ have ears!” Crowley repeats, gesticulating vaguely with his left hand, “Not how _we_ have them, obviously, but… ears. Anyway, it’s just something I said once. That’s all. I said it in front of him, and so, if it was an ad about feeding ducks, ducks listening, talking to ducks - typically, it’d be Aziraphale.”

“ _There’s_ an operative word, my dear fellow,” Aziraphale half-jokes, “‘Typically,’ implies that it wasn’t _always_ me. Did you ever meet someone that _wasn’t_ me, over an ad about _ducks_?”

“That’s not necessary information.”

“ _What_?”

“How did you get _his_ attention, if you needed it?” Adam asks Crowley.

Crowley sighs in thought, smiles, then replies, “one memorable time, I wrote ‘a foul serpent will be tempting in St. James’ Park. Blondes preferred.’” 

Adam tosses his head back in laughter, while Aziraphale’s ears burn.

“You - ! - I was very embarrassed by that one!”

“I know, you gave me an earful about it when you finally did show up.”

Enjoying their company, Adam stays for some time, asking questions about theology, religion, and philosophy, intertwined with history, both globally and personally - he’s an engaging, bright young man. 

He asks plenty about how to woo Peter; Crowley insists that they cannot make anyone fall in love with another person, but he could give Adam ‘a leg up,’ if he needed. This mostly seemed to include advice about mixtapes, flower arrangements, and other romantic gestures Aziraphale wouldn’t have associated with Crowley.

“You could always write him a song. You took up guitar this summer, right?” Crowley asks; Adam had made mention of his guitar lessons earlier in the afternoon.

“Yeah, but… composing is hard. Have you ever written a song for someone?”

“Not directly. I put my inspiration in a few artists, though.”

“You have?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley shrugs, “if I was feeling particularly melancholy, sure. I’d provide a muse, and speak through them. I’m half-convinced _you_ had a full-fledged affair with Victor Hugo _and_ Claude-Michel Schönberg, so don’t you give me that look.” 

“I did no such thing!” Aziraphale gasps.

Adam seems to find their banter terribly amusing, and Crowley and Aziraphale both seem to be in agreement that Adam is delightful. The conversation flows, the laughter comes easy, the tea replenishes, and it’s getting dark outside by the time Aziraphale realizes Adam should be getting home.

“Here’s my mobile, if you ever need to reach me again, alright?” Crowley tells Adam, handing Adam a slip of paper with his number on it, “Don’t go summoning Demons all willy-nilly just cause it panned out for you this time, alright?”

“Yes, Crowley.”

“Good lad. Alright - get home safely, yeah?”

“I will,” he assures them both, “Thank you for everything, Mr. Aziraphale, and Crowley!”

He leaves them, walking Dog down the street, and turning out of sight. 

They stand in silence for a while, and just as Aziraphale is about to ask if Crowley would like to start drinking something a bit stronger than tea, the Demon turns to him with an air of departure.

“Well, I suppose I’ve bothered you enough today, Angel. I’ll, uh… see you around, then?”

A beat passes.

“You don’t _have_ to go,” Aziraphale observes hopefully.

“Have plans, actually,” Crowley tells him apologetically, “I can come by tomorrow, though.”

“Plans?” Aziraphale wonders - _with whom?_ he wants to ask, but instead, he finishes, “Oh… well. Yes. That’s fine, then.”

Crowley nods agreeably, unbothered as ever, nothing at all about his expression or posture that would imply he has forever shaken the foundation of all Aziraphale understands of him. Seems ready to pop along, even, not a molecule out of shape.

Then, he didn’t _mean_ to confess anything to Aziraphale, this truly remarkable day.

For Crowley, perhaps it was just an interesting day, a visit with the Anti-Christ, discussions of history, with little to think on at the end of it, possibly other than berating himself for having done some good in the world for the day.

Aziraphale isn’t even sure what he’s doing, inviting Crowley to stay. Wouldn’t know what to do with him, if he agreed to. Can’t imagine broaching the subject of having overheard the conversation, of the feather, or of misadventures caused by their personal ads, or of romantic love at all with Crowley.

He doesn’t feel capable of broaching the subject on this remarkable day, or any other day, actually.

Too much time has passed, Aziraphale thinks. Perhaps there was a window for them, a window of opportunity somewhere along the past six thousand years, when it wouldn’t have felt so tangled, so stuffed to the brim - it’s this enormity that Aziraphale has ignored for several decades now, and he’s just not sure how to speak on it. 

After all, he is an Angel that doesn’t sound much like an Angel anymore; eaves-dropping, secretive, fearful, and selfish. How could he speak on a Miracle he’s been unwilling to share with the one who inspired it? How could he own up to it? How could he untangle what’s between Crowley and he?

He doesn’t want Crowley to leave, inasmuch he’s never really had the desire to part ways with Crowley, but _this_ remarkable day has left him full of shining lights, and whizzing sparklers, dizzying flocks of thought he can’t hope to keep up with, and really, he’d prefer to not be alone with.

Perhaps it’s his penance for sneaking about earlier; now he must sit alone with those stolen thoughts, that overheard conversations dredge up, and he must stew in them for as long as they’d like him to soak.

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“Was it Queen? That Freddie fellow?” Aziraphale asks, “That you spoke through?”

“No,” Crowley answers, a bit surprised by Aziraphale’s question, “Although, I can’t deny helping a bit with ‘ _The Show Must Go On_.’ Just a bit. Can’t stand to listen to it, though. Breaks my heart.”

Tilting his head like a confused dog, Aziraphale inquires, “who, then?”

“Uh, well, a few, through the millennia,” Crowley responds, tapping his finger to his chin, “None that I think you’d listen to.”

“But maybe?” Aziraphale asks shyly.

Smirking, Crowley shrugs, and sighs, “alright. How about Leonard Cohen?”

“I… I don’t believe I know any music by that fellow,” Aziraphale admits.

Crowley nods, and tells him with a knowing tone, “I figured. It’s fine, Angel. I worked through several artists, but I will say, I struggled the most with him.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, I kept trying to make him see, and feel what it was I was thinking, and feeling, without possessing him - we both languished over it, really. One song, and it took us three years to write eighty versions of it. One version had fifty verses in it.”

“Goodness!” Aziraphale exclaims, “At least you know he was trying, I suppose.”

“Definitely, yeah,” Crowley agrees, “Still - it was never quite right. There was a final product, very well-received, ultimately, but the meaning is lost on most. Even when he sang it, it wasn’t… well, it wasn’t precisely right. But how could a human ever truly capture emotions beyond their spectrum - it was a lost cause to begin with.”

“How do you mean?”

“He tried,” Crowley continues, “ - tried to capture all that I put in his mind, but I suppose no one could’ve have ever gotten it entirely right. Demonic, existential melancholy might be a thing you call a specialist in for, though I pity anyone or anything that specializes in Demonic melancholy.”

Aziraphale gives a small, sort of nervous laugh, which Crowley recognizes.

“You alright?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale tells him, “I... “

He trails off, meaning to say he ought to bid Crowley goodnight, or forever stand at the steps of his shop, but instead, he reaches his hand out, and asks, “may I see your hand, Crowley?”

Automatically, without suspicion or hesitation, Crowley offers his right, as if they were shaking hands in agreement, but rather than shake his hand, Aziraphale takes it in his, and opens several of his eyes that no one on this plane of existence can see.

He opens them, to find that Adam is very correct.

There are secrets - many - in the bony wrist of Crowley’s right arm, and a particular one in the palm of his right hand. 

A white feather bends to accommodate the space granted by the heart of Crowley’s palm, and a memory swirls around it, like it’s caught on a breeze.

He can hear himself, asking Crowley for help in tending to his wings, near the Eastern Gate - he had returned the favor, of course, as it was only polite to do, but it seems that Crowley kept a feather from him, something he calls a ‘souvenir.’ Perhaps his first ‘souvenir.’

It travelled through many ages with Crowley, and Crowley preferred wearing his hair longer than most could bear in the desert, and for quite some time, really. It would appear that this was for the sole purpose of being able to wear the white feather in his hair in a way he found tasteful, and beautiful.

He sees himself, then, through Crowley’s memories - Crowley was on a stroll, deep in a forest somewhere. He happened upon Aziraphale, but Aziraphale has no memory of this encounter.

_Aziraphale was in old, ivory robes, draping long, and soft over his vessel. His ankles and wrists were showing, his clavicle too, and when he turned to see Crowley, his eyes lit up in recognition._

_“Crowley!”_

_Crowley swallowed roughly, blood stirring about, hot, dizzying, and he struggled to keep himself composed. He nodded, and replied, “Aziraphale - what are you doing here?”_

_“Aziraphale?” the Angel asked - then he rolled his eyes, and said, “oh! I’m working still!”_

_With a snap of fingers, Asmodeus, the Demon of Lust, was standing before Crowley, and Crowley was shamed._

_Asmodeus smiled at him, approaching him through the verdant grass._

_“Crowley! How goes it? It has been long since last I saw you!”_

_“I -”_

_Asmodeus, when they were working it would seem, took the form of one’s most shameful desires, to draw in lustful humans, and Tempt them properly._

_This is something Crowley knew about Asmodeus, and their work._

_His face was terribly hot._

_Crimson eyes flashed upward, into Crowley’s hair, and Asmodeus smiled knowingly, “I thought that name sounded Angelic. You bad, bad boy.”_

_In a quick second, Asmodeus shifted back into Aziraphale’s form, eyes blue as the bright sky, and a hand Crowley knew well touched at his chest._

_“Crowley - why withhold your virtue thus? I see the signs on your flesh, that you are not using the very best parts of it. Why not gift it to me, rather? I can look like an Angel for you. I can look like whatever you want most. The humans are so uncreative, Crowley. Surely I could teach you a thing or two, and have some real fun. We could have a fine time together.”_

_The warm hand smoothed over a wrinkle in Crowley’s black robes, and Crowley shut his eyes against Asmodeus, really, very genuinely frightened of their power. Frightened of how badly he wanted to fall for the Temptation._

_“Tell me. What do I look like? To you? What are they like?”_

_“Blonde.”_

_“Blonde?” Asmodeus laughed jovially, “That’s a change for me. Go on. Tell me what I look like.”_

_Without opening his eyes, Crowley told Asmodeus, “white-blonde hair in soft tufts. Turned-up nose. Creamy skin. Pronounced Cupid’s bow. Eyes like labradorite.”_

_“Sounds lovely,” Asmodeus complimented, “Come - have fun with the Angel. It’ll be just like the real thing.”_

**_It won’t be, it can’t be, I can’t, I won’t, I shouldn’t, I want to, I shouldn’t want to -_ **

_“No,” Crowley answered sternly, removing Asmodeus’ hand from him, and opening his eyes, “Thanks for the offer, but I’m on a trek north today. Can’t stop for play time.”_

_Asmodeus-as-Aziraphale frowned playfully, “oh, but Crowley, not even for a quick kiss?”_

_Crowley imagined truly kissing Aziraphale - the real Aziraphale - and all he could coherently hear in his head was the phrase ‘it would tear me asunder.’_

_He wanted it, anyway._

_“Enough. Don’t wear his face anymore. It insults him.”_

_Seeing how unwelcome their advances were, and perhaps realizing that pissing off a deeply powerful Demon such as Crowley was none too wise, Asmodeusu shifted back into their vessel’s form, and simply nodded. He was higher-ranking than Crowley, being a Prince of Hell, but he was still wary of Crowley's legendary temper._

_Crowley took Aziraphale’s feather out of his hair that day, and turned it into a writing quill, away from prying eyes._

_His sadness was profound._

**_I will never have that_** _, Crowley thought, as he stared at the writing quill left on the desk of his inn room,_ **_He’d never kiss me - a Demon. Never. Wouldn’t even hold my hand - not if it were the last hand to hold. I am a fool, and I best learn that lesson sooner rather than later. Hope is a dangerous beast, and it’s never kept anyone afloat. Won’t keep me afloat either._ **

“Aziraphale?”

Shutting his many eyes against the secrets rattling around Crowley’s bones, Aziraphale blinks back up at Crowley, and smiles a watery smile.

“Sorry. Lost in thought. I… sorry.”

Still unsuspecting, Crowley accepts that answer, and rubs his thumb back and forth over Aziraphale’s wrist in an easy show of comfort.

“Are you really alright? I won’t leave if you’d rather I stay.”

_I’d always rather you stay._

That’s not something Aziraphale is brave enough to say, though.

“I think, perhaps, I’m a bit over-socialized for the day. Burnt out, maybe.”

“Well, let me get on, then,” Crowley encourages, taking his hand back, “Get yourself some rest, Angel.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale says from the back of his throat, nervous, sad, and ten thousand other things, “I… you’ll come back tomorrow, though, yes?”

Crowley looks curiously at him, then answers, “if you’d like me to. Sure. You’re sure -”

“I’m sure I’m alright, Crowley, I don’t mean to worry you, really, I… I’m out of sorts, I think,” Aziraphale rushes to answer, “I - sorry. Sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Reluctant to leave, Crowley hesitates by the steps to the door, but ultimately departs, insisting that Aziraphale call him, if he’d prefer Crowley come back before the morning. 

Aziraphale watches Crowley’s silhouette turn the corner of the block, and wonders how it is that love can be such a despairing thing.

He goes inside only to grab his coat - he has no intention of wiling hours away with his treacherous thoughts, and Crowley has dinner plans with someone else. 

Aziraphale has to know.

So, he follows.


End file.
